That I Could Understand
by Undercover Primadonna
Summary: Love was a language Christophe didn't understand, and never bothered to learn. At least, until Gregory said something.


That I Could Understand

Christophe had never been good with love. Maybe it was because he was the type of man who would rather show how he felt than use his words to express his feelings. Perhaps it was because he never had practice. But, it was most likely due to the fact he had no understanding of his romantic self. To him, it was as if it were written in a language he'd never heard of before, one of ancient aliens or a dead tribe from ages ago.

For the longest time, he never tried to understand it. He shoved it down his throat, down into his stomach to be digested, never to be spoken. He ignored it when others spoke this language, and occasionally his lungs burned with words he didn't understand, but he'd just burn them away with smoke. Sometimes it was a sigh, other times it was gesture. He shoved down the yearning for understanding, caging it and locking it in a drawer for nobody to find.

But then, Gregory had spoken the language.

It had been a subtle gesture, a sigh, a look that lasted too long, a smile. Christophe found himself lost in translation, flabbergasted and confused. His fingers tingled with the want to perform the gesture. His lungs ached with a breath. His eyes yearned to look back. His lips twitched to smile in return. He shoved his feelings down, swallowed them whole, ready to digest them.

He didn't understand any of it. The tingling in his chest, the way his lips parted when Gregory got close, it was all speaking a language he'd never heard before. The way he prayed for him to be close, to brush up against him accidently, they were but stumbling phrases he'd never knew existed.

He tried to act tough. He pretended as if he didn't burn with the language, that he didn't ache with the need to breathe those phrases. And for the longest time, he got away with it. Gregory didn't argue. There was no protest. A year passed with Christophe leaving this language unspoken to Gregory.

But, a year had been enough.

"Christophe," said Gregory. They had been at his apartment, drinking after work as they typically did. This was something Christophe understood. This was a living language, taught to you in school, by your parents, passed down from generation to generation.

Christophe looked up from his beer with an annoyed frown. He raised an eyebrow, as if asking what it was Gregory had to say. And then he noticed the scowl on his friend's face. His expression had twisted from annoyed to curious. "What?" he asked.

With a sigh, Gregory turned away from him. "You really aren't interested in me, are you?"

His fingers tingled to reach out and do something he couldn't comprehend – perhaps touch Gregory's hand, or maybe his face. The thought of his face made his lips ache with something he didn't know. He pursed his lips and thought long and hard about what to say. But all the thoughts were written in the language, and he couldn't quite decipher what they meant.

Gregory sighed again. This time, it wasn't a part of the language. It was a sigh of frustration, of rejection, of all the negative things Gregory was feeling that Christophe could feel radiate off him in a language he actually knew. He knew that language. He knew it thoroughly and viciously, like a first language, spoken at home with his family, among friends and among classmates. "Man up already and stop leading me on. It isn't fair."

The language he couldn't understand bubbled in his throat, stung his tongue. It burned in his lungs like smoke and pushed up against the roof of his mouth in a desperate attempt to be spoken. It coerced him to take in a breath and breathe in out.

"Have I been leading you on?" he asked. It still felt unfamiliar, foreign. But it was basic enough.

"Quite frankly, yes," said Gregory, sternly. He was still speaking the language of dismay and anger, and it made the new language burn brighter in Christophe's insides. "You let me get so close, but as soon as I even hint that I'm attracted to you, you shut off and get distant."

He wanted to apologize. He wanted to touch him and do—do what? The new language ached his fingertips. It made him feel numb and heavy, like he was asleep. He tried desperately to search for the right words, but everything led him back to the language he didn't understand. There were words, words he didn't know, phrases he yearned to say but didn't understand. It was like learning to speak all over again, learning how to move your lips and your tongue to make noises, it was obvious but so difficult.

"Well?" said Gregory. He was standing up now, as if he would leave the room, or make Christophe leave. "It's fine if you don't like me, but can't you just be honest about it instead of making me feel like shit about it? I always feel like I'm not getting this across to you."

Christophe fumbled desperately with the lock over these words. He tried eagerly to open the drawer he'd thrown them in. But it just wasn't coming out, and he was just sitting there, staring at Gregory blankly.

"Answer me, dammit!"

The lock snapped unlocked. The drawer fell open. The phrases burst out like a jack-in-the-box, spreading everywhere and getting all over him. Words, promises, feelings, gestures, breaths, gasps, touches, objects, they all flood his senses like an ocean. And then he did something he didn't expect, something he hadn't done in years upon years.

He burst into tears.

They were silent tears, the ones that just seem to fall gracefully from your eyes on their own accord. He was still just staring blankly at Gregory, only now his vision was blurred with tears. And Gregory was taken aback, flinching visibly and hollering, "Why're you crying? Christophe! Stop it!"

He looked down at his lap. He was speaking the language, he realized. He was butchering the words, speaking it with the wrong accent, pronouncing all the words wrong. But he was speaking it, regardless. He hoped he was speaking it well enough to get it across to him.

He must have, as Gregory immediately dropped his shoulders. "Christophe," he sighed, and Christophe knew he was speaking the language right back. He took Christophe into his arms and held him tenderly. He spoke the language so advanced, so profoundly, pronouncing all the words so correctly, it made Christophe stumble as he wrapped his arms around Gregory and squeeze him. He gripped his shirt and buried his face in his shoulder. He tried his hardest to speak as fluently as he did, hoping he'd understand that he was new at this.

"I understand," said Gregory, as if he could read his wishes. "I'm sorry I got so angry."

Christophe kept speaking the language, though he could only assume what he was communicating. After a moment, Gregory pulled away. Christophe let him go. He left the room, not saying a word in any language. It took a minute before he came back, a box of tissues in his hand. He sat down beside Christophe again, and began patting his cheeks with the tissues. This was a phrase he couldn't understand, but let slide anyway.

"Are you alright?" asked Gregory, smiling fondly, another stumbling phrase he couldn't understand. Christophe nodded anyway, and kept silent. "Look," Gregory continued, "I'm sorry I yelled. I didn't think you'd start crying. It's just, I like you, and I thought you liked me, but as soon as I got close, you shut yourself off. I just wanted to know why."

Christophe searched for the right words, stumbling through phrases and words and exclamations in the language he couldn't comprehend. His fingers tingled with a need to touch. He let them do as they wished, allowed the language to speak itself. His hands reached up and cupped Gregory's face. Gregory's eyes glazed over, and he reached forward. His lips parted, and Christophe felt his lips yearn to do the same. Gregory inched closer, until their lips touched.

They kissed brief and chaste, pulling away before returning again and planting another brief, chaste kiss. It made Christophe feel like he was on fire, like his insides were alight with something he didn't know. He spoke the expert phrase with ease, again and again, quick and fleeting. But then Gregory cupped Christophe's face and pulled him in for another kiss, one of which he didn't break. He let it linger and go on, and Christophe felt like he was slowly mastering the language.

"Thank you," said Gregory, when they finally pulled away.

Christophe shrugged. "Whatever."

Maybe that wasn't part of the language. But he'd get it eventually.

* * *

A/N: I'm considering adding a second part if this goes over well. But I kinda just wanted to post something simple as my first post.


End file.
